The Hour Grows Late
by Dagorloth
Summary: Short Story. Aragorn is the rightful master of the palantir, and fully intends to claim it as his. But is it worth the risks? Does he have enough strength to take on Sauron?


**The Hour Grows Late  
**By: Rai  
**Rated:** PG

**Author's Note:** Do not kill me for any inconsistencies with the canon. That is, if you pick up any, because I was mostly careful to remain as true to the original as possible.  
This is based completely on what comes to pass in the book and it's written in a format as if you could insert it into Tolkien's _The Lord of the Rings_. So I haven't really taken any liberties of introducing Halbarad, who is a ranger from the North who came down to assist Aragorn in the battle against Sauron, because there really is no need in this story.  
Besides that, I have tried to make it as easy to read and understand for just about anyone who is only familiar with the story (that is only watched the PJ movies). If what happens confuses you, well... READ THE BOOK :P  
**Spoilers:** Ooh well quite a bit will be spoiled I have to say, so in that respect, you ought to have read everything up until the end of "The Passing of the Grey Company" in Book 5 of _The Lord of the Rings_, or at the very least, have watched all of Peter Jackson's trilogy. In any case, read at your own risk. –nods-  
**Disclaimer:** I am not the owner or creator of Middle-earth, nor am I the owner of any of the characters mentioned thus. This is just a fanfiction writer trying to tell a small tale that popped into my head and flowed onto the computer one day. Grammatical errors are my own.  
**Synopsis:** Aragorn is the rightful master of the palantir, and fully intends to claim it as his. But is it worth the risks? Does he have enough strength to take on Sauron?

* * *

"Is this wise?" 

Aragorn could not help but give his friend and fellow ranger a withering glance as they traversed their way up the many steps to the highest chamber of the Burg. "Do you not trust my judgment, Halbarad?" he asked as he opened the door to a stale, musty room; where even the simple sweep of the door sent dust motes dancing in what morning sunlight that trickled through the small paraphet window. "Or is it," he observed quietly, "that do you not trust my strength?"

"It is neither," answered the fellow Dúnadan grimly, brushing aside the rogue brown locks that fanned across his face as he stared back at the poorly shaven, grimy man before him. "Many years have demonstrated your expertise in both. But this is not a mere campaign, scrimmage, or battle we are speaking of."

"And how can you be so sure of that?" scoffed Aragorn darkly as he placed a small bundle on the wooden table that stood in the center of the small room, the only piece of furnishing within, sweeping his dark green cloak aside, scattering more dust that carpeted the floor beneath his feet. "It is but an object obtained in the field of battle."

"Do not try to deceive me, son of Arathorn! You are not the only one aware of the powers of the _palantiri_," growled Halbarad, grabbing the younger ranger's arm, tightening his grip as Aragorn's grey eyes glanced angrily at his. "Lore they may now be to many of our kin, but not all are blind to the forgotten past." He pulled Aragorn away from the table, staring fearfully at the object that was concealed beneath the cloth that kept it hidden. "This is dangerous."

Aragorn gawked at Halbarad's unease, for he had never seen his friend so afraid, and it made him doubt as he noted the concern laced in his comrade's eyes. He gave the table an uncertain gaze, wondering just what danger the item atop it held within. But he then remembered his task, and the uncertainty passed as he yanked his arm away from Halbarad's grip, gracing him with but a single cold stare. "This is my right as its lawful master," he hissed at the elder ranger. "I have waited too long for this."

"And now that it is within your grasp you shall run towards it without thinking of the perils that lay on the last steps of your journey, though they are often the most dangerous of them all, ready to cause you to stumble and fall, to the ruin of all you have worked for?" snapped Halbarad. "Did not a wise man once say that the hasty stroke goes oft astray?"

"This is not a choice I make in haste for it is one I have had long thought over since it came into my possession," countered Aragorn, loose locks of his shoulder length brown hair falling haphazardly across his face. "It is a choice I have made in a time of need, when one must seek the truth."

"And you think looking into that thing will reveal this 'truth' to you?" retorted Halbarad. "How often have such objects led to folly? How would we know what is seen is truly what will come to be?"

"This is what must be done," spoke Aragorn sharply, looking back at the ranger who stood before the door.

The grim face of Halbarad, a face that have so rarely shown any emotions, scared and battered through years of many burdens and hard labour, was now etched with worry and care, and Aragorn could almost see the fear that rankled his composure.

Realization and understanding suddenly dawned on Aragorn. This had to do with much more than the _palantir_.

"Halbarad," he said quietly, walking towards his old friend, clutching the man's shoulder, "I am no longer the young and brash ranger I once was in my younger days, long ago. I have grown-up, my friend. You must see this."

"I do," responded the elder ranger weakly, avoiding Aragorn's own persistent gaze. "I have seen it every time you travel with me, every day of it. I have had the joy and pain to watch you age, watch you burden yourselves with the cares of this world…" He trailed off sadly as he sighed, casting his eyes to the ground, staring intently at his boots. "I have seen it."

"Then you must let me go," whispered Aragorn. "You must! My time has come. I can no longer be the ranger anymore. I must…"

"… Become who you were born to be," finished Halbarad, a smile playing on his lips.

"So many nights," Halbarad whispered after awhile, his eyes bright as it looked back into a time long passed, though not forgotten, "by the light of the fire, you've had me listen to the cares that your lineage has you burdened with." His laughter rang hollowly around the room. "There were so many days when you would tell me of your fears of being unworthy, or being unable to overcome the weaknesses of your ancestors. It is strange…" He shook his head as he stared into the eyes of his younger friend, a light dancing playfully in his own. "How strange it feels indeed, to see you so eager to cast aside the ranger now."

"Much has changed in the months since we parted," said Aragorn softly.

"Indeed and great were these changes too. I can barely recognize the young Strider I had had the pleasure of saving so many years ago," chuckled Halbarad lightly, though his eyes held none of its cheer, only sadness. "I see only a King of Men."

"I am still that Strider you've grown to love, deep down," said Aragorn reassuringly. "And I always will be. But I am also Isildur's Heir, and whether you wish it or no, the time has come for me to take back what is rightfully mine." He turned around so that he was facing the table, his eyes shining as he focused on the objected swathed in cloth, sitting so serenely on the tabletop. His hand reached out to it.

"Take back what is rightfully mine," he whispered, "starting with this!"

And he threw back the cloth to reveal the dark orb that lay beneath it, black as jet, the contours of it smooth and seamless, and its simplistic yet alluring beauty denoting its elvish craft.

Halbarad relaxed slightly, having tensed upon the unveiling of the Seeing Stone, as if expecting lightning to strike the room the instance it was revealed. But the room remained as still and quiet as ever, but for the soft sounds of the Rohirrim that floated through the open window from down below. Yet he still eyed both the item and the Dúnadan warily, unsure precisely what was going to happen.

"You shall guard the door, Halbarad," said Aragorn softly, his eyes locked on the ancient craft of Eldamar. "Make sure none disturbs me. No one is to enter."

"Aragorn?" Halbarad's brow furrowed, as he gazed doubtfully at his friend.

"Was I not clear the first time I said it, Halbarad, Dúnadan of the North?" The sound of his voice was clear and sharp, and Halbarad's blue eyes actually widened with surprise at its tone.

He bowed stiffly at the Chieftain of the Dúnedain. "It will be as you wish my lord." Halbarad's voice was respectful, but he still marched resentfully out of the room, against his better judgment.

Aragorn heard the door shut behind Halbarad and knew that he was now alone, but his gaze did not wander as he circled the object, like competitors in an arena, seeking out the other's weakness, so to exploit it. But there was no weakness to be seen within the Stone, so flawless was its craftsmanship, and Aragorn soon ceased his circling, though his gaze did no linger.

"Long have you hunted me," he whispered to the Stone, his eyes hard with the many memories that haunted him as he allowed his emotions strengthen his resolve. "Long have you traced my footsteps, sought out my thoughts… long have you tormented me." His voice was low and his face harsh, but the rage that trembled within was only visible in the way his hand shook as it reached to his sword at his side. "Long have I endured it," he continued, a light in his eyes growing brighter as he absorbed all the years of rage, pain and loss he had to suffer by the hands of the evil he now sought to defeat. "All of it. I ran from it. I feared it even!" His voice echoed off the walls of the room as it rose in a crescendo of anger.

The sound of his blade being drawn from its sheath reverberated keenly, and the room seemed to brighten under the elvish light of Andúril, the Flame of the West; forged from the shards of Narsil, the blade that was broken, reforged at last.

He held it for a moment, letting the light of the sword lend him its strength and hope, thinking back to a time when he was a man of twenty, when he first received the shards, and with it, the truth and burden of his lineage. "But no more," he whispered menacingly. "I will suffer you no more!"

And he grabbed the _palantir_ and held it aloft, level with his eyes.

The orb's dark colour remained unchanging, and for a moment Aragorn thought that it was refusing him, denying his right as its master, and his heart sank.

But then vague shadows began to form within, wisps of cloud and mist, like that of a fleeting thought. And Aragorn perceived them and tightened his hold on the stone, willing it to reveal to him images that were clearer and easier to read.

The stone began to glow slightly, as the lights began to swirl chaotically within the orb, but Aragorn still held onto the stone, and endured it.

Suddenly, the lights went out.

Aragorn blinked, surprised at how abruptly the stone had faded, relaxing his hold on it only slightly.

Darkness swept him like a hard blow, as he was plunged into what seemed like an eternal night. The light faded, the room faded, the _palantir_ in his hand faded, all that was there moments ago seemed to pass from existence, except for him and his blade, caught in a void of shadows beyond the reaches of this world.

Alarm raced through his consciousness as he tried to get his bearings, tried to take control of the situation, but there was nothing. Only the dark. But Aragorn was not afraid. He would not allow fear to take him, to utterly defeat him.

A red flame flickered in the distance, its light expanding as Aragorn's eyes fell on it. He watched as the blaze slowly formed itself into a small orb, flickering outward, as if beckoning the ranger as he stood there, his eyes fixed on the small flame.

He took a step towards it…

And suddenly the flame expanded outward, assailing his vision, the heat of it burning his face as he covered his eyes against its intense heat. A soft cry of horror reached his lips, but the great roar of the blazing inferno before him absorbed the sound.

Aragorn did not need to be told who, or what, this was. He knew.

Sauron… The Great Lidless Eye…

Words and noise swirled about him, soft at first, but increasing gradually in magnitude until it swarmed his senses, overwhelming his ears, the same dark words said in the same dark speech repeated over and over again. "_Ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatuluk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul…_"

He did not need to fathom the meaning of the words. He had heard these words before, at the council of Elrond.

_One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,  
__One Ring to bring them all, and in the Darkness bind them._

"_Who are you?_"

The question reverberated clearly through Aragorn's mind, pounding it even, but it was not a thought of his own. It was slow, deliberate, said with deadly earnest, and deep. These words snapped Aragorn from his stupor as those words probed him, seeking his response. Seeking, ever searching…

But he did not answer.

"_Who are you?_" He could hear the voice in his head again, alarm ringing clearly within it, pressing him. But Aragorn fought back those words, pushing it deliberately from his mind, refusing it.

Aragorn cried out as pain rankled through his very being, feeling as if his insides were afire. Sweat and tears poured down his face as he fell to his knees, his breathing coming in heavy gasps, each breath seeming only to bring him more pain.

And yet he still did not answer.

Anguish raced through his body once more, as if a thousand arrows pierced him a thousand times, inside and out, sending terrible agony through his consciousness, as if it were shredding the very light of his existence. His back stiffened under the torture, and his cry was silent, for there was no sound that could tell of the torment he felt, and never wished to endure ever again while he still lived.

As he dropped to his side, his eyes clouded in intense pain while the Eye's cruel laugh reverberated off the walls of his inner thoughts, he saw something. Something other than the terrible firestorm that assaulted his reality, if indeed one could call this a reality. To Aragorn, the torture was real enough.

The light was small and vague at first, but soon grew larger and more profound, casting blue and white rays all about his mind, and somehow, it seemed to draw away some of his weariness and his suffering. So he reached for it, seeking its comfort.

And then he saw it… a boy. A young boy, racing down great white marble halls. The boy's laughter rang clearly in his ears, a laughter that brought tears to the Dúnadan's eyes. It was so full of life, so full of innocence… and so vaguely familiar.

Suddenly the eyes of the boy's fell on him, and to Aragorn's utter shock, the youngster raced towards him, a smile bright on his face, long dark brown locks cast about his fair face and a mischievous glint in his sparkling blue eyes, followed closely by a taller, more regal figure, her dark hair cascading down her back, adorned in a loose purple gown of sheer silk as she raced after the boy, her fair elven features full of youth, vigour and love as she raced after him, telling him not to bother his father, that he was busy. Her sweet, gentle voice echoed through Aragorn's heart, piercing it deeply. He knew her voice…

Arwen…

But the boy did not listen to her as he ran forward to the fallen ranger.

"_Ada_!" the boy cried happily, reaching out to him.

And then he was gone.

It was as if all of Aragorn's strength returned to him in that instance. With an unearthly cry he practically leapt to his feet, the pain that continued to batter him no longer a conscious feeling in his mind.

The question Sauron posed reverberating over and over and over again in his head. "_Who are you who are you who are you who are you…_" Again and again, it hammered him, but he barely felt its force, nor paid it any heed.

The look in Aragorn's eyes as he stared up at his tormentor was that of steel, as he swept his blade forward in both hands to hold it in a warrior's stance, his glare full of determination. And Sauron at last beheld him for who he truly was as he threw down his guise, and for a moment it seemed that a white flame flickered on Aragorn's brow, like that of a shining crown. "Behold the Sword of Elendil," cried out Aragorn triumphantly, the look on his face casting an eerie light.

And it was then Sauron was afraid. Afraid and angry, for he thought that the line was long dead, that there was no one left to claim the empty throne of Gondor. A scream erupted from the Lidless Eye, like that to one of the Nazgûls, but more terrible, more torn and more dreadful. The fact that he had been wrong in his assumptions now gnawed at his conscience. He knew that this one could challenge his dominance.

The Heir of Elendil has come forth. Men were not as weak as he supposed. There is courage still, strength enough to perhaps challenge him.

He could not risk the peoples of Middle-earth uniting under one banner. And he knew that if this one was to reclaim the throne, that it would be inevitable.

Unless…

The magnitude of the scream increased exponentially as he roared his rage, as his mind sought to take the ranger now that he knew him, to kill him, to hurt him.

To make him pay.

But Aragorn heard not the sounds, nor felt the pain of it, nor paid any heed to the wrath that bore down on him. His eyes were closed, Andúril held before him, his knuckles white as he clasped its hilt, all his thought concentrated on one, single, deadly stroke.

The sword twirled in his hands, a blur of liquid light, and with one terrifying cry, he sent the blade across to meet Sauron. Time stood still, as Andúril swept a wide arc across the Eye, its fires burning his hand as the metal beneath his fingers burned hot. And though the pain was great, he still endured it, to the very last sweep, cutting a single horizontal line across the Bane of his existence.

At the instance the sword swept all the way through the image of the Eye, all sound seemed to implode on itself, and Aragorn for some seconds, could only hear the sound of his ragged breath. And then suddenly, the image of the Eye shattered into a million pieces, the force of the explosion sending Aragorn sprawling backwards, the cry of Sauron's surprise reverberating horribly against the eternal darkness of this shadow world.

He laid there for a moment, listening only to the sound of his breathing. Relief washed over him as he realized how close he had been to failure. How his strength had only been just barely able to endure what he had… just barely.

But he had done it, regardless of how narrow the escape was.

He had mastered the Stone.

His energy was spent, and his mind was nearly broken, but he pushed himself to his feet, his sword before him, forcing all his remaining energy to one last thought. "_Show me…_"

The images came fast and furiously, buffeting him almost as painfully as Sauron's words. Visions of vast Orc armies marching through the gates of Minas Morgul; the Haradrim girdling up the massive mûmakils for battle and death; the retreat of Gondor from Osgiliath, while the winged Nazgûl assailed them, killing many as they fled for Minas Tirith across a great wide open plain.

And then he saw something that sent quails to his heart. Unlooked for from the south, setting sail up the coast, glided the black ships of the Corsairs of Umbar. Already he could see the destruction, as the armies in the South of Gondor, unable to push towards the city laid trapped by this unexpected horror, before being razed to the ground as the ships pursued their path up the Anduin… to Minas Tirith…

"No!" whispered Aragorn. "This cannot be... it must not be…"

The sounds of battle diminished, but another sound replaced it, a chorus of voices that sent chills down his spine, as they chanted in unison, their voices lacking any emotion, any fear, any feeling.

_Over the land there lies a long shadow,  
__Westward reaching wings of darkness.  
__The Tower trembles; to the tombs of kings  
__Doom approaches. The Dead awaken;  
__For the hour is come for the oathbreakers…_

And unbidden, he suddenly beheld the army of the Dead, their light sickly and pale, as they called to him, skeletal hands reaching towards him, demanding that he frees them from their curse, repeating again and again the last line spoken…

"_For the hour is come for the oathbreakers…_"

A loud clank tore him from his nightmare, and he saw that he had dropped the _palantir_ from his sweat-ladden grip, his eyes staring hollowly at it as it rolled away from him, coming to rest on the other side of the room, where it laid silent and still.

Aragorn's back was to a wall, and his clothes were damp with sweat, as was his face, hands and hair. He practically dripped with perspiration as he slid slowly to his knees, his eyes shut as he groaned quietly.

His eyes opened again, but the world became a blur as they clouded, his consciousness stolen from him, the exhaustion taking full toll on his body.

But it did not matter. He knew now what he must do.

He collapsed face forward on the ground as he blacked out.

8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8o8

"_Aragorn! Aragorn!_"

Someone was calling his name. A voice was calling to him, so full of urgency and concern that it reached out to him, drawing him away from the dream. But he did not wish to let it go. He only wished to keep replaying the vision he had beheld in the _palantir_.

The vision of his son.

"ARAGORN!"

A cough escaped his mouth as he opened his dim grey eyes, his surroundings confusing him at first before he remembered vaguely exactly how he came to be lying on the dust covered floor in a stone room. "Hal- Halbarad?" he moaned as he got to his knees.

The ranger burst through the doorway with such a force that Aragorn was surprised that it didn't blow the wooden door right off its hinges as Halbarad raced inside, his eyes wild and wary, rushing immediately to Aragorn and embraced him suddenly.

"By the earth," muttered Halbarad, "I swear my friend you may have taken years off my life."

"Halbarad?" Aragorn's eyes were full of question.

"I… I stood guard over the door as you ordered, allowing none entrance," he explained sullenly as he released Aragorn. "And… and… Aragorn, never make me do such a thing ever again! Having to stand at the door and listen to the horrible screams that came from inside… not knowing what was happening to you… and then to be faced with that deadly silence after… it was worse than being chained to a wall and being made to watch Orcs torture my dearest friends to the death. At least while you watched, you knew exactly what was happening…"

Aragorn's eyes flickered up at Halbarad's, noting that they were full of tears, and that the ranger was trying hard to hold them back. He then noticed that his friend's palms had deep impressions from gripping the hilt of his blade so tightly, and for so long.

"_Goheno-nin Halbarad_," whispered Aragorn. "Forgive me. I was not thinking what this might do to you when I ordered you to stand guard outside. To be completely honest I was unsure what looking into the _palantir_ would do to me. I only knew that I had to endure it alone."

Aragorn gave the fellow Dúnadan a wry smile. "Actually, I'm surprised you listened to me at all," he teased lightly. "You always had the nasty habit of defying my orders when you think them inadequate."

Halbarad stared at his friend, shock written on his features. "You've just endured the Valar knows what… and by all means… and you have the galls to crack a joke… Strider, I will never understand you," stuttered Halbarad exasperatedly, giving Aragorn a weary gaze.

Aragorn laughed in spite of it all, though it was a hollow laugh. "In any case, dear friend, what news do you bring that nearly made you throw down that door yelling my name?"

"Well…" started Halbarad, but he was interrupted as a light-footed being raced into the room, his eyes falling on Aragorn who still sat on his knees.

"What happened here?" whispered the intruder darkly.

Aragorn squinted up at the fair-haired elf, noting the fear that flashed across his fair elven features. "Legolas?"

"And do not forget Gimli the dwarf, old friend," wheezed another as he trudged into the room, his breathing quick from exertion from climbing the many stairs to the room. "Because he certainly has not forgotten about you."

"What is this?" asked Aragorn groggily, as a wave a fatigue cascaded over him, causing him to sway slightly.

"I thought I told the two of you to stay at the bottom while I get him," snapped Halbarad as he placed a hand on the ranger's shoulder, steadying Aragorn.

"You took too long," answered Legolas airily to Halbarad, causing the ranger to stutter slightly as the elf bent down to stare into Aragorn's eyes. Clear grey, elvish eyes perceived deep grey ones, and he frowned at his friend, glancing quickly at the _palantir_ sitting quietly where it had fallen from the ranger's grasp. "You didn't…" he started to say, his eyes narrowing.

"Oh but I did," interrupted Aragorn with a small laugh.

"I do not see what is so funny right now, Aragorn," frowned the dwarf, "but it may interest you to know that it is about an hour after noon, and that King Théoden and his men are ready to ride out to Edoras, and he bids you come for the hour is well nigh."

"The hour is later than you think," muttered Aragorn as he struggled to get to his feet.

Halbarad steadied him, apprehension etched into his face. "Aragorn, you should not move! I may feel as if you have taken twenty years from my life, but you look it."

"I am fine, really, Halbarad," argued Aragorn sternly as he tried to pull away from Halbarad's grip but Legolas also took his shoulder, as he warned the ranger.

"No, Halbarad's right. You look terrible, Aragorn."

"Now where have I heard that line before?" joked Aragorn lightly as he wrestled his way out of both their holds, trying hard to ignore how easily simple movements sapped his strength. "Honestly Legolas, can't you ever come up with more original phrases? Or at least lines with more tact that doesn't involve stating the obvious…"

"Oh he's got you there, Master Elf," snorted the dwarf from the door, winking brightly at Aragorn through his great beard.

"Gimli, you are not aiding this situation," said Legolas tensely, giving Aragorn a rather infuriated glance.

"Oh give it a rest, laddie," reassured Gimli. "He can walk can't he? So he looks as if he's had some horses run over him a couple of times. Stands to reason, he doesn't look as if he slept or ate."

"I'd hate to break up this light chatter, but we have some more pressing issues at hand, and a certain captain of the Mark waiting rather impatiently for you at the gates with the sons of Elrond," interrupted Halbarad abruptly, his blue eyes staring darkly at Aragorn's. "Time is of the essence."

"Indeed, and much more pressing than you think," cried Aragorn as he headed out the door, taking the stairs downward briskly. "We shall ride."

"The Rohirrim will be glad of your company then," said Legolas lightly as he and everyone else in the room followed after the ranger.

Aragorn's steps faltered, and he stopped, and all those who trailed him did the same, puzzled at the sudden change in demeanor in their leader. At length, he spoke again.

"No…" Aragorn's eyes were dim with disappointment. "Our paths lies elsewhere, I am afraid…"

Halbarad frowned. "I do not understand."

"I need to speak with Théoden," was all Aragorn would say as he continued down the stairs, everyone behind him shared a single worried look.

Halbarad's eyes widened. "Aragorn…" he started.

He gazed forlornly at Halbarad, his face grey and withdrawn. "It will be as Malbeth proclaimed it to be."

"Malbeth?" asked Legolas inquisitively.

"Now is not the hour to discuss it," added Aragorn gently, giving both Legolas and Gimli a knowing look. "There are other things I must set straight first. Come, we shall discuss this with the King."

Halbarad's face went pale at the mentioning of the name as he strode up beside his friend, wishing he had something worth saying to his friend.

"So this is our path," was all Halbarad was able to utter bleakly.

"I did not wish it so," answered Aragorn quietly, but Halbarad did not hear him. Instead, he began to whisper the prophecy of Malbeth the Seer to himself; in a voice so quiet that even Aragorn had to strain his ears to hear him muttered the remaining three lines.

_The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.  
__From the North shall he come, need shall drive him:  
__He shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead…_

Aragorn grimaced as they reached the bottom of the stairs. He wanted nothing of this, and if there was but any other way he could take, he would. But it was not to be. For great was his need and haste, and now that haste led him down that accursed road.

The hour had indeed grown late.

**The End?**


End file.
